It’s trying.

The color changes every time

I look at it.

Jet black, and tinged red.

I don’t think it’s a black widow.

It bit me three times before I found it

Dangling off the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

It has seven legs

Not eight

One missing on the right side.

I can’t stop watching it

Scurry around the table

Climbing over folders and pens

Taking the same route over and over.

It’s a baby

Still doesn’t know

That it can drop its web

Glide to the floor

And be free.

It treads the edge of the table

For the fifth time.


I started this.

I could try to move it

Put it out of its misery

Balance it on the tip of my pencil

And set it on the table next to mine.

Instead I watch

As it crawls toward my professor

And disappear in the folds

Of her fuchsia sweater.

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